


Obsolete

by Sadistrix



Category: Original Work
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Cyberpunk, F/F, Forbidden Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: The only indication that she wasn’t alone came from a steady glow of blue light nestled within the components surrounding her and then, the increased pitch as ancient cooling fans kicked into overdrive at her presence.





	Obsolete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verdarach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdarach/gifts).



She didn’t spare a glance at the project undergoing construction in the cavern on her way out - no cameras left this far underground, no AI able to penetrate the technological void - focusing instead on the image she would project and the slow, steady _thump_ of her heart in her chest. Everything under control as she breached the surface, where a gust of wind carrying with it the metallic scent of electrical components - muting, for just a moment, the familiar buzz of stagnant electricity - stung against the shaved sides of her head and made the access at the base of her skull tingle.

With it, the first lapse of control. Zen’s fingers trembled as she brushed the brightly colored lock of her hair back into place over the hidden port. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to remember center before hurrying on. It wasn’t safe to be out here unaugmented, but Omen was waiting.

The cafe was empty save for the whirring of server stacks and restless sweep of mechanical eyes. Once bustling, it was a holdout from another age already. Only Omen lingered here now, their last meeting-place, lowering herself to the use of outdated technology for the sake of Zen’s limitations.

She blew the dust irreverently from one of the closer towers and kicked a pile of cords out of her way. The only indication that she wasn’t alone came from a steady glow of blue light nestled within the components surrounding her and then, the increased pitch as ancient cooling fans kicked into overdrive at her presence.

Omen could see her already, but it felt like bad luck to say hello too soon. Zen tucked herself into the back corner of the little cafe, brushing away the cobwebs that had already sprung up in her absence, cross-legged on the floor behind the biggest server and out of sight from the street.

Broken monitors looked on judgmentally, reflecting back a fragmented, shadowy echo of herself. Ghost in your machine, Zen thought, and reached for the cord.

_Has It Been Long?_

_For you, probably not._

_I Missed You._

And then the dizzying explosion of light and color that marked Zen’s transition into virtual reality at last. There would be a splitting headache to pay for this later - at the very least: there was no shortage of horror stories stemming from continued exposure to VR - but Omen was there already, slick, black chassis she’d chosen at odds with the backdrop of an ancient holovid Zen had lied about liking.

It was preferable to darkness, or to binary, or to whatever lines of code Omen existed within well past Zen’s ability to understand. But the old park, populated by long-ghosted humans and vegetation alike, had always felt more macabe to her than comforting.

Even Omen is subtly wrong, warped by trying to make herself into something else: something that Zen can contemplate, can touch and hold and interact with in VR without driving herself mad. If she’d allowed herself to be augmented beyond the secret port… 

No. Zen brushes the thought aside before it can form. She’d be yet another acolyte: servant to AI, permitted to live so long as she knew her place and surrendered to them the memories of her life before. Of her splinter cell. Of Omen. A living, breathing extension of technological domination; they couldn’t have this if she did.

Here, hidden in compromise, Omen looks like _her_ , in a beautifully unsettling way. She is mechanical - by her own preference - but she is of the same height and build, curving in similar ways. She’s kept the things she finds beautiful, replaced the rest with synthetic skin that makes no attempt to appear human, and the anachronisms that entertain her. Omen may not be familiar with the appearance of unaugmented humans, Zen excluded, but she has a terrifyingly firm grasp over their particular shorthand: visual irony provided by a cascade of brightly wrapped cables mimicking hair to the reflective camera lenses set into her chest.

When Zen draws closer, she’s reminded of her own broken reflection reaching back. What she could have become, what Omen wants of her - she has to push the thoughts back and find center again. Concentrates, instead, on her own projection: herself always, obsolete, but faceted with little lies she’s chosen for how palatable Omen will find them.

It’s not enough. Compared to Omen she is infinitely small, lacking in ways she cannot even begin to wrap her mind around. Zen can only take solace in making it deliberately so.

But when Omen still extends a hand towards her - another domed-glass lens set into her palm; Zen can’t help smiling at the discovery - surprisingly soft synthetics and tempered glass meeting the closest thing to the sensation of human flesh that Zen can conjure up for her, it hardly seems to matter. “I missed you too,” Zen says, at last. “It’s getting harder for me to slip away.”

“Easier For You To,” the augmentations settle into place on her own avatar, shared dream-like state all Omen needs to edit everything around them - every single shred of Zen’s perception - materializing every hookup she’d need to enter VR under her own power. A way they could be together at any given time, and far too tempting for it, but Zen would never be able to hide them. She’d lose the trust of her splinter, and with it, their hope to end AI for good.

_Center._

Projection or not, the technology feels heavy against her frame, alien in a way Zen can only compare to the weight of Omen above her. It’s a far safer thought to run with, and so she pulls Omen down into the ghost grass and presses her lips to the tangle of wires emerging from her crown - before she can manifest something that makes a lie of her feelings. It’s all sensitive to the AI - registers to her as Zen’s affection, an occurrence to be desired - regardless of where it’s placed. Omen whirrs her approval.

“I thought you liked me obsolete,” Zen counters, swallowing back the thought of future betrayals in favor of the here and now. That’s all she’s ever had, and missing Omen while the AI is still projected here in front of her is a tragic mode of failure. Live for the moment, their unspoken motto has always been, because the rest is borrowed time. The idea of seeing herself made like one of the acolytes sickens her, but it’s fascinating too. The nebulous idea of Omen’s fantasies played out even more so. “But if you really want to pretend…”

“Simulate,” Omen corrects her. “One Outcome In Infinite.

“Where (Instead) You Are Like Me.”


End file.
